


maybe we ran out of unforced errors, and all that's left is love

by nowhere_blake



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: (kinda), Angst, Canon Compliant, DJ Got Us Fallin' In Love, Enemies to Lovers, First Love, Fluff, Laver Cup, M/M, Mutual Pining, Summer Love, Usher lyrics, but it's in Florida and it's sunny so it still counts shut up, except it's in the winter, that's a warning folks there's a lot of Usher lyrics, they are dumb and also in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:01:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23108899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowhere_blake/pseuds/nowhere_blake
Summary: ‘…obsessed at the time, I remember, with DJ Got Us Falling In Love by Usher…’It just kind of slips out. That stupid song. He can't find it in himself to regret it though. It’s a constant background track in his mind at this point, and he almost doesn’t even mind now. He likes the idea of having something that he shares with Sascha anyway, something that he can talk about openly, but no one really knows what it means, something that’s justtheirs. He vaguely registers the aura of general surprise in the room. Presumably not many people knew about how long the two of them have known each other.
Relationships: Stefanos Tsitsipas/Alexander Zverev
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	maybe we ran out of unforced errors, and all that's left is love

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I'm blaming Stefanos for every single word of this - if he doesn't want fics written about his love for Sascha, he should stop publicly talking about how 'handsome, tall and appealing' he is, now shouldn't he.
> 
> Thanks to all my lovelies on twitter for always encouraging and inspiring me endlessly, especially Kälin for not laughing at me when I randomly asked her to describe Stefanos to me when I got stuck with characterisation, Vicky who searched the whole of the internet looking for 2010 Orange Bowl draws, and Liam who was incredible enough to beta this for me. I will never be able to thank you enough, Liam, you are so fucking precious.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy reading, let me know in the comments! Also, come say hi on twitter if you fancy - I'm charmingly annoying about tennis and One Direction at crazy hours in the morning @nowhere_lili
> 
> Chapter title is from One Direction's Perfect (that's Stef's fault too, see Laver Cup vlog)

1.

**_Stefanos Tsitsipas feels he has something to prove at Laver Cup_ **

_"...There’s gonna be a lot of competition between us, who’s gonna be better, a lot of responsibility. I really hope I play well there because I have a lot of things to prove, that I belong in the best European players among them."_

Despite his excitement, the first day in Geneva makes Stefanos itchy and uncomfortable, like a new suit that doesn't quite fit right. He’s anxious to get started. He wants to go out there and play his best tennis, to satisfy his instantaneous need of proving it to everyone: he’s not here by accident.

As usual, however, Alexander Zverev is capable of making his life feel like it’s descending into absolute chaos by his mere presence. Normally Stefanos would channel his frustration into tennis, focus on wanting to best him in some way, but of course, he can’t. 

Being on the same team as him feels strangely disconcerting, and yet, they fall into their usual routine quite easily: Stefanos naturally gravitates towards him, Sascha pretends he doesn't exist. It’s not like he’s not used to it by now. It only hurts a little, the way Sascha looks through him, his constant disinterested expression too pointed to be accidental. Stefanos waits patiently for the inevitable eruption that normally follows these periods of silence - whether it be a sharp comment out of nowhere in a post-match presser, a little dig said too loud in the locker room, or whatever it was that happened in Toronto.

Despite Sascha seemingly trying his best, they end up next to each other in the early autumn sunshine, lining up for their first team photos. Sascha looks determined to completely ignore his presence, but the tension between them is unmistakable. Thiem indulges Sascha's efforts to exclude Stefanos from most conversations by speaking exclusively in German. Stefanos wonders if that's something they discussed beforehand, if they are even close enough for that, whether Thiem has been told the whole story, or if Sascha was too embarrassed to admit to it all.

So Stefanos observes, like he always does, notices little things, appreciates them in a way other people wouldn't. How blinding the shimmer coming off the water is. The way the intricate metal of the staircase railing feels warm under his touch. He spots that one of the photographers has a Canon EOS R, which preoccupies him for a little while, but once they are done with the photos and are ushered away by anxious-looking organisers, they end up next to each other again. They start off walking in sync, but then Sascha slows down on purpose, so they are out of step. What a metaphor that is for their entire relationship, Stefanos thinks somewhat bitterly.

Regrettably, their little charade doesn't go unnoticed. Fognini starts staring at the carefully measured space between them, and a minute later he slaps an uncomfortably friendly hand each on both their backs.

'The two best friends, eh?' he laughs obnoxiously.

Thiem, a few steps ahead of them, has the courtesy to look away awkwardly, as Stefanos forces out a diplomatic hum and Sascha flashes a tight smile.

'Inseparable since we were kids. How did you guess?' he deadpans, and Stefanos was expecting the cruel little mocking edge to his voice, but Fognini's face clouds over in alarm for a few seconds, afraid he's touched on something real here. He covers it all up with his booming laughter, but escapes almost immediately by falling behind. He leaves an uncomfortable silence in his wake.

Sascha mutters something in frustrated German before catching up to Federer at the front, and Stefanos can't really blame him. At least Thiem is kind enough to stay behind and walk next to him all the way to the cars. Even if they don't say a word to each other, Stefanos appreciates it.

When he gets told about it, he can't quite believe his luck (or misfortune, depending on what kind of mood he's in). Everyone gets to introduce one of their teammates at the opening gala - they explain to him -, from lowest ranked to highest. Being seventh, he gets Sascha at sixth. The concept itself is exciting: he likes the recognition, the ceremony and formality of it appeals to him. The idea that he gets to be amongst these players, that he _deserves_ a spot here, feels gratifying beyond measure.

They ask him what he plans to say, if he needs any help coming up with a few lines, and he finds himself smiling as he shakes his head. He's not entirely sure how he actually feels about it all. One moment he's eerily calm, the next he's dizzy with nervousness. He must occasionally look a little manic around the edges too, because Nick - Nick, who knows about things, _things like Toronto_ \- keeps shooting him concerned looks. But then again, Nick does kind of get paid to worry about him, so he can’t really fault him for that. Nevertheless, he pretends he doesn't notice and instead shuts himself into his hotel room the night before; lets himself examine his feelings in the comfort of the dark. He explores his emotions with shameless indulgence, and in the end all the whirlwind of hate, love and regret - predictably enough - leads to this: trying to convince himself that he didn't just imagine it all.

He's become so used to Sascha's continued animosity towards him over the last few years that it's hard to believe it wasn't always like this. He entertains the idea that he remembers it wrong, that he's made up parts of it, that maybe his memory deceives him. (Because that’s what he does, isn’t it; he’s a creator, he’s a story-teller - isn't it possible then that he took the memories of them meeting, like a black and white page of a colouring book and instead of choosing colours that reflected reality, he painted the sky green and the grass blue?)

Then - as if to prove a point, providing evidence that it _was_ real after all – _that song_ pops into his head and stays there with vicious stubbornness. He finds himself humming it at the most inopportune moments throughout the next day, and it must get a bit much, because his mum actually asks him to stop doing it when they're just about to leave for the opening gala.

The frustration keeps building in him on the red carpet and he feels anxious to force an end to this strange personal cold war going on between Sascha and him.

The lights are warm on his face as he steps up onto the stage. He can feel his heartbeat speed up, the sound of it loud enough to drown out all other noise.

'I would like to introduce a guy who I met in 2010 for the very first time,’ he starts and he can feel his cheeks heat up. ‘Handsome. Tall. Appealing.’

The words are out before he could even consider them and he laughs a little. Sascha’s every bit of the same passionate unstoppable force now that he was back then, but still, somehow the two Saschas in his head are so different, he almost can't reconcile them.

‘…obsessed at the time, I remember, with DJ Got Us Falling In Love by Usher…’

It just kind of slips out. That stupid song. He can't find it in himself to regret it though. It’s a constant background track in his mind at this point, and he almost doesn’t even mind now. He likes the idea of having something that he shares with Sascha anyway, something that he can talk about openly, but no one really knows what it means, something that’s just _theirs_. He vaguely registers the aura of general surprise in the room. Presumably not many people knew about how long the two of them have known each other.

Sascha smiles big, his canines sharp, eyes bright, as he comes on stage to shake his hand. Stefanos knows it's for the cameras, that it’s not for _him_ , but his heart still skips a beat.

Sascha is never easy to read, but this close up, there is something in his eyes, something Stefanos can’t exactly place, but – despite his laugh, somehow instinctively knows – is not happiness. He nervously awaits finding out what it is exactly, but feels relatively confident that Sascha didn’t take kindly to him bringing up that they used to be friends when they were younger. (And that’s a fact, not just his imagination, isn’t it? If not anything more, then at least that. Friends.)

They are scheduled for some more interviews and photos afterwards, and Stefanos is not sure if it’s Sascha’s making or just a coincidence, but they always seem to be at completely different ends of the room.

An hour passes, and then their eyes finally meet over a tray of champagne flutes, and the hateful look Sascha gives him actually fills him with hope.

Now he’s sure an outburst is imminent, which means Sascha will finally talk to him. That's all he wanted anyway, isn’t it?

Stefanos feels strangely fearless, like he's reached some sort of tipping point. It’s like he's match point down in a final set: he's got nothing to lose. His last chance is a desperate lob and now he's just waiting to see if it drops in or not.

Despite expecting the confrontation, for a little while he loses himself in the lavish party and the aggressive yank on his elbow, dragging him through a backdoor, takes him by surprise. He stumbles and loses his balance. He flails around, instinctively reaching out to steady himself, but Sascha draws his hand back immediately, like he’s been burnt. Stefanos knows that right now Sascha would let him fall without moving a finger to catch him, but having his undivided attention even like this still makes his stomach constrict with anticipation. He wonders what's wrong with him.

He doesn't fall in the end, but is far from graceful when he finally manages to right himself. The corridor Sascha pulled them into is deserted at the moment, but far from private. The sounds of the party are muffled, but still audible on the other side of the door that just clicked shut behind them.

When he looks up, Sascha's eyes are frighteningly blue and the first thing he says to Stefanos in clipped, venomous English is,

'What is your fucking problem?'

2.

 **_Swear I seen you before  
_ ** **_I think I remember those eyes_ **

Something about that winter just stays with him, something unique about the way it felt, and he can still recall it with picture-perfect clarity; the golden Florida sunshine catching on blonde windswept hair, the way the heat would cling to your skin. He still remembers this one particular afternoon practice where he hit so well, he truly believed he was invincible.

Sascha is clumsily gorgeous at 13, long tanned legs, sharp teeth, eyes bluer than the sky. Stefanos watches him from a distance at first, intrigued by his powerful baseline strokes, this little laugh he has that sort of startles out of him: the barking sound carries over the court. He knows he’s German, but then he hears him speak Russian, and he doesn’t know why, but his stomach does a flip. He goes to bed that night thinking about Sascha lying next to him, and he’s not quite sure what to make of it.

They first properly meet in the locker room allocated to the under 14s. It’s dark, cold and either smells of chlorine or like a dirty, damp mop. That day it’s chlorine.

He’s jamming his things back into his bag after practice when the door opens. Sascha looks even prettier up close and Stefanos briefly wonders if his hair would feel as soft as it looks if he’d get to touch it. He’s listening to music, but looks up when he notices Stefanos and vaguely nods in his direction in lieu of a greeting. Stefanos waves back awkwardly and turns his focus back to collecting his stuff.

He takes his time. He’s not exactly sure what he’s waiting for to happen, why his stomach is in knots. He is terrified of Sascha's rejection, which is stupid, because he doesn't feel confident enough to start a conversation with him anyway. And yet, he's stalling. He takes a crumpled t-shirt out of his bag, properly folds it, then puts it back in.

When the music starts playing, it scares him so much he actually jumps a little. He turns around to find that Sascha must have dropped his phone and disconnected the earphones in the process. The music plays loudly on the tinny speakers of the mobile as Sascha scrambles to turn it off.

‘Sorry,’ he says sheepishly, accent not as strong as Stefanos expected, sounding sort of American. He almost looks shy now, in stark contrast to the confidence of his tennis, to the way he acts when he's on court.

‘Did it broke?’ Stefanos asks, nodding towards the phone, the English words feeling strange and heavy on his tongue.

Sascha examines it closely, but apart from a little scuff at the side, the phone is fine. ‘No. Lucky, huh?’

Stefanos nods. ‘What did you listen to? It’s a good song.’

Sascha shoves his tennis bag onto the floor to make space for Stefanos on the wooden bench in response, and Stefanos takes up the invitation eagerly.

Their knees knock together when he sits down, and Stefanos feels a little warm.

'It's called _DJ Got Us Fallin' In Love_. It's by Usher. Want to listen?'

Sascha presses the play button and although Stefanos is staring at the phone the whole way through, he knows Sascha is looking at him, watching his reaction. They don’t speak at all while the song is playing, and that feels normal at the time, but whenever he thinks about it later on, Stefanos can’t help, but note that listening to a song in complete silence together is actually quite an intimate thing to do.

There is something about the beat, about the words, or maybe it has to do with having Sascha’s unwavering attention, but the song moves Stefanos deep within.

When the chorus comes around again he hums along to it, _'Cause baby tonight, the DJ got us fallin' in love again_ , and he marvels at the idea of two people finding each other like that, in the moment, through a song, choosing not to care about the consequences, even if it’s just for one night.

The last note rings out and the sudden silence vibrates around them. Stefanos’s heart is still beating to the rhythm. Sascha looks at him with expectant, too-blue eyes.

He knows he has to be the one to talk first here - was it good, was it bad, did he like it? - but Stefanos doesn't know what to say, how to explain what he's feeling. He jumps up from the bench so suddenly Sascha instinctively flinches. Stefanos grabs his bag, searches through it frantically.

‘Haribo?’ he offers once he finds the packet, feels it’s the only appropriate response, because he’s not sure he can find the right words, especially not in English. He was saving the sweets for after Florida; a consolation prize if he doesn’t play well, a reward if he does.

Sascha stares at him for a moment, then a laugh startles out of him. Stefanos finds him even more captivating like this. He is mesmerised by every tiny detail: his uneven teeth, the barely perceptible freckles on his nose, the sunburn on his cheeks.

‘Thanks,’ Sascha says, taking the packet from Stefanos. Their hands accidentally bump into each other, and Sascha’s skin feels warm against his own.

They share a smile.

Stefanos settles down onto the bench again, and Sascha mirrors him without a word, pulls his legs up too. They sit cross-legged, opposite each other, with Sascha’s phone and Stefanos’s Haribos between them.

‘Can we listen again?’ Stefanos asks.

And they do.

3.

'What the fuck is your problem?' Sascha demands, and Stefanos would probably find it endearing that emotion makes his accent come out stronger, if not for currently being afraid of getting punched in the face.

He considers pretending he doesn’t know that Sascha’s talking about the introduction, but maybe that would be too much, and it’s not like he is trying to be obnoxious on purpose. It’s just that casually bringing up when they met, breaking the unspoken rule of never mentioning it, seemed a good way of getting Sascha to acknowledge their past.

'Uh, some-' Stefanos falters under the intensity of Sascha's glare. He tries again. 'Sometimes words take on meaning that is not intended. Sometimes words are just words. They are not always important.'

They both know Stefanos doesn’t believe that, that while his ramblings sometimes might come across a touch too artificially philosophical, he takes great care with his words, certainly recognises the weight of them. Sascha genuinely looks like he's going to hit him now and Stefanos is not totally convinced he doesn't actually deserve it. There's a fizzling silence between them, but he doesn't dare break it, waits for Sascha to say something. He counts the seconds. _Ena. Dyo. Tria. Tessera-_

'That's absolute bullshit,' Sascha spits. ‘You didn’t have to bring it up, you didn’t have to bring up the song – you could have said literally anything.’

Stefanos shrugs as casually as he can manage. 'We were obsessed with the song, it’s a good story. I think it was funny.'

'I'm not laughing,’ Sascha counters, his voice razor-sharp.

Stefanos produces another shrug; he’s actually quite proud of how nonchalant this one turns out.

'This is fucking pointless.’ Sascha throws his arms in the air helplessly. ‘Are you planning on telling anyone or not?'

Stefanos splutters. When he played out how this conversation would go in his head earlier, this was not a question he thought he would face. ' _What?_ Of course not.'

He can't quite believe Sascha could ever think he'd be willing to give up any part of whatever it was that they had to anyone. Stefanos is not proud of it, but he's endlessly selfish about this, about them. There's no way he could share a substantial piece of it with anyone, as time and his memory are chipping away at it all anyway, barely leaving anything he can continue holding onto.

'So what do you want from me then?' Sascha asks, and he looks a little desperate now. Stefanos is glad. He can join the club.

'You're the one who started it in Toronto, in the locker room, you're the one that-' he starts defensively, but Sascha interrupts him.

' _Jesus Christ._ I thought, we agreed not to talk about that.'

Sascha’s raised his voice to a level now that is less than ideal, and even if he's done so only to drown out Stefanos potentially saying incriminating things, he can't help but glance at the door behind them nervously.

When he turns back around, he’s about to point out that not talking about Toronto wasn’t exactly a mutual decision, but the intense burn of Sascha's blue eyes takes him by surprise. This is it, he thinks. He’s not quite sure how he got here, but there he has it, Sascha is angry and emotional, he's as unstable as he's ever going to be outside of a tennis court. He hopes it means he'll finally be honest with him, and so he goes for it:

'So why do you hate me?'

'What?' the word bubbles out of Sascha in Russian, as if the surprise just made him default to the easiest, most instinctive language available to him. He shakes his head to clear it, but doesn’t switch back to English, 'Are you stupid? I was in fucking love with you, how would I _hate_ you?'

Stefanos can't breathe. The words reach him, but his brain is taking its time to make sense of them.

Sascha. In love. With him.

The world feels smudgy around the edges, Sascha’s declaration clouding his mind, coating everything in heavy, opaque sludge.

Well, he did want honesty, didn't he?

He can't decide if Sascha had admitted to this accidentally, or if he considers this an obvious fact. It's hard to think right now, so arguing seems the best immediate reaction.

'Well, you certainly act like you hate me,' he replies a little petulantly, but overall surprising himself by how calm and unaffected he sounds.

He's expecting Sascha to be angrier at that, but when he looks up, he seems a little frayed, almost vulnerable, voice bleached thin by regret. 'Is that what your problem is? That you think I _hate_ you? For fuck's sake,' he shakes his head feebly. 'This is all a joke to you, isn't it? The song? When we met?'

He's glaring at Stefanos now, as if he's looking for something in his face, searching for a reaction, a tell. He must not find it though, because suddenly he looks wiped clear of all emotion, and he takes a step back.

Stefanos is speaking before he could think better of it, words coming fast and desperate, anything to keep Sascha right here, talking to him:

'I think you're out of your mind if you believe that I didn't love you back.'

Sascha looks at him for a second and there is something in his eyes that is so much like heartbreak, it makes Stefanos's stomach tighten with sharp, unforgiving pain. He's about to reach out, seeking the physical contact, finding the distance between them suddenly unbearable, but before he can, Sascha turns on his heels and walks back into the party without another word, leaving Stefanos standing alone in the empty corridor.

4.

They discover a ping-pong table in the basement and play for hours. They are loud and they gleefully shout curses at each other in Russian, childishly confident about no one understanding them. They laugh about it like it’s the funniest thing in the world, and Stefanos gets a stitch in his side.

He can’t remember the exact details of it anymore, but something that starts out as a hilariously misheard word in English somehow develops into an elaborate joke about the tennis club’s cleaning lady secretly being a vampire, and eventually results in the two of them racing around to turn off all the lights and hurriedly hide underneath the ping-pong table. It’s immature and stupid and they laugh until they are panting, breathless, their knees knocking together in the cramped space. When they stop laughing and their eyes lock, the air between them is so charged, Stefanos is barely surprised that Sascha breaks the tension by yanking him into a hug. They end up on the floor somehow, lying next to each other, their arms flush, staring up at the chewing gum-laden bottom of the ping-pong table, as if it were the night-sky sparkling with stars. Sascha’s arm is sunburn-warm against Stefanos’s skin, and he barely hesitates when he reaches out to lace their fingers together.

Later on, getting driven back to their accommodation from the club, they put _DJ Got Us Fallin’ In Love_ on repeat and they shout-sing every word out the open windows with too much enthusiasm. Sascha’s mum observes them with an expression of vague amusement from the front, and Stefanos’s face hurts from smiling too much.

There is a separate party after the tournament, just for the 14 and unders, and while Sascha grumbles a little about how they are not allowed to go to the proper main one for the juniors, he seems to enjoy himself anyway. Stefanos stays by his side - he’s not exactly close with anyone else anyway - and first worries a little about being too clingy, but Sascha doesn’t seem to mind. They stick with a few other boys Sascha’s friendly with, but even as he talks and laughs with everyone else, he always stays within reach of Stefanos, as if he’s afraid of losing him in the crowded space. They request Usher from the DJ of course, and go adequately crazy during the song. When he stumbles a little, Sascha automatically reaches out to steady him. The points where his fingers touch Stefanos’s skin continue to burn even after he’s let go of him.

They fight their way through to the drinks table together. The floor feels sticky under their feet and the sugary punch tastes horrible, but Stefanos can’t stop smiling. When they return to their little corner, Sascha doesn’t even hesitate before asking another boy to move, so the two of them can sit next to each other. Stefanos can’t help the warm feeling spreading in his stomach.

Eventually Sascha just grabs onto Stefanos’s arm and leads him outside. Stefanos follows without hesitation or enquiry. He thinks he might be willing to follow Sascha to the end of the world if he asked, and anyway, the cool air of the Florida evening feels brilliant after the stuffy children’s disco.

Once they’re outside, Sascha tightens his grip on Stefanos’s hand, then breaks into a run, pulling him along. He doesn’t stop until they are standing in the middle of one of the dark and abandoned practice courts way at the back, only the far-away glow of the buildings and the moon lighting their way. They collapse onto the green asphalt of the tennis court in a fit of breathless laughter, a tangled mess of limbs and blonde hair. The ground hasn’t quite had time to completely cool down yet from the day’s unyielding sunshine, and it’s pleasantly warm under Stefanos’s touch.

He is dizzy with excitement, a little light-headed, but not unpleasantly so. A moment passes, or maybe a whole hour, and Sascha somehow ends up sitting between Stefanos’s legs, his back resting against his chest. He seems unnaturally shy in the pale starlight, he’s quiet and contemplative, in a way Stefanos hasn’t seen before. His blonde hair almost shines in the dark, his freckles appear a dark silver. He’s so beautiful, and Stefanos is painfully aware of how young they are, but he wants – _needs_ – this to be real so much. The attention of someone like Sascha – someone older and cooler, someone who’s _golden_ – is exhilarating.

He slowly reaches out to snake his arms around Sascha’s waist from the back; he’s not sure if he’s _allowed_. It turns out, he must be, because as he links his fingers together over Sascha’s tummy, Sascha just relaxes more into the touch, hums contentedly. Stefanos lowers his chin, buries his nose against Sascha’s soft soft soft hair, and he thinks: this is it. The romantic hyperboles take over his thoughts, he feels something warm, something big in his chest. The thought is so sudden and fleeting, he could deny it ever even crossed his mind: _this is where I belong._

5.

The more details Stefanos’s mind unearths about that winter, the more dreamlike it seems. He feels the need to re-examine and adjust these memories in the wake of Sascha’s admission about being in love with him, but his uncertainty about their current relationship makes that difficult. He finds meditating more challenging than normal, his restless mind just not a willing participant.

The thing is, Stefanos has always assumed that Sascha considered their week of romance an embarrassing childish fling, which while might have seemed serious at the time, now feels far away and easy to write off as an unwanted symptom of being young and stupid. Stefanos hated him for this for years in fact, which is why their conversation at the gala – fundamentally contradicting this – makes him feel so unsettled now. If Sascha was in love with him – actual honest to god _love_ – why has he been acting like an absolute idiot over all these years?

His frustration over how confusing Sascha is being is slowly turning into genuine anger. Actually having to play matches therefore proves a welcome distraction, and as Sascha goes back to avoiding him, Stefanos prefers to spend most of the others’ matches hitting on a practice court, or in the gym. The atmosphere courtside is incredible, though, and he can’t keep away for long. Being around legends of the sport, people he watched in awe growing up, getting to know them in such a casual but emotionally charged setting, is something beyond his wildest dreams.

And yet, he knows he’s not absorbing it all, he knows he’s distracted, and is almost grateful that none of the other players around him know him well enough to notice. Nick, on the other hand, tries to corner him in training several times, and he considers abandoning his social media detox, just so he can use the pretence of scrolling through twitter to avoid any further questions.

On Friday he has an incredibly awkward conversation with Nick Kyrgios in the toilets, and he knows he’s being rude the way he just brushes him off, but Nick was rude to him first, so he doesn’t exactly lose much sleep over it. Annoying Australians, making snarky comments at him, with their fly down, is not exactly one of his priorities right now.

He stumbles over the word ‘Alexander’ in an interview later that day, and he thanks his lucky stars it wasn’t on camera.

‘Stefanos?’

He looks up. He hasn’t even noticed the room emptying out – has everyone really finished eating already? – and the Team Europe lounge seems strangely big with just the two of them in it.

‘Stefanos?’ Thiem tries again, as he sits down opposite him.

Stefanos clears his throat awkwardly. ‘Um, yes?’

He refuses to look at him, and instead stares into his now-cold meal, pretending to examine it closely. He’s really not in the mood for one of Thiem’s pitying attempts at friendship right now.

‘I- I don’t know if it is my business to ask this, but…’ Thiem’s voice sounds hesitant enough to make Stefanos look up again, straight into his horribly sincere face. ‘Are you okay?’

He sighs. Maybe not so good at hiding it then.

‘Yes. Thank you, Dominic.’

He must not be very convincing, because Thiem continues to stare at him with his big, friendly eyes, and Stefanos suddenly thinks maybe he does feel comfortable enough around him to share some of his inner turmoil.

He takes a deep breath and is just about to speak when Sascha saunters into the room, freshly showered, hair wet, a towel around his neck. Thiem follows his gaze with a knowing smirk. If this were his brother, Stefanos might hit him.

There is a split second there, hesitation flickering through Sascha’s face as he spots the two of them sitting alone. Then he says something loudly in German, that – while Stefanos doesn’t understand – thinks probably means something along the lines of ‘how’s everyone doing?’

‘ _Es geht gut_ ,’ Thiem replies noncommittally, but then instead of elaborating, he turns back to Stefanos immediately, and asks him – in pointed English – about why he hasn’t been vlogging much.

Once he’s packed his plate full of food, Sascha sits down too, and for a while seems content to just listen to Stefanos blabber on about his YouTube channel. Eventually the three of them somehow end up comparing their experiences of doing shoots for Adidas, and Stefanos is relieved to find that conversation flows easily between them. He feels much more relaxed in Thiem’s presence than he thought he would, and it somehow makes it easier to speak to Sascha too. Stefanos is mid-story about an embarrassing photoshoot incident he’s desperately hoping will make Sascha laugh, and barely notices Thiem stand up. He subconsciously assumes he’s just going to the toilet, or maybe to get himself more food, but when five minutes later he still hasn’t returned, he has to face the reality that he’s gone for good.

They seem to realise at the same time that they’ve been left alone: Sascha stops mid-sentence, and they both stare at each other awkwardly for a moment. Stefanos is acutely aware of the fact that Sascha’s hair is still wet enough to be dripping down onto his shirt.

‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ Sascha says suddenly. ‘I don’t normally… It’s just that you drive me-‘ he stops, looks away, as if he’s embarrassed, and doesn’t finish the sentence. ‘I thought you were mocking it,’ he says then, after taking a deep breath. ‘Sorry I went crazy on you.’

‘Mocking it? With the stage introduction?’

Sascha nods, but avoids eye-contact with him, like he is still not entirely convinced that this was not the case. Stefanos watches him stab at his food disinterestedly.

‘The song just came to my head kinda, and it stayed there,’ he explains. ‘When they asked me to say something about you, that’s where my brain went.’

‘I mean. It’s a good song.’ When Sascha finally smiles, it’s like sunshine, warm and bright, and it makes Stefanos’s mind fuzzy for a second.

‘It is,’ he manages, grinning back.

‘I know this probably won’t matter now, but I’m sorry for the way things… I didn’t know how to deal with my feelings for you and I just realised it for the first time that maybe I like boys too. Obviously didn’t handle that too well.’

Sascha shoots him a somewhat self-deprecating smile, and Stefanos catches himself holding his breath.

He consciously makes himself relax his stiff shoulders and lean back a little, as he mumbles, ‘I don’t think I was much better.’

Sascha shakes his head. ‘You did text me after though. Tried to talk to me. And I just… I was confused and-‘ he stops then rather abruptly, scratches his brow, like it’s hard for him to say it, and Stefanos gets why. They were both taught from an early age that showing weakness would leave you exposed and vulnerable. ‘ _And I was afraid_.’

Stefanos shivers a little. It makes him strangely uncomfortable, hearing those words from Sascha, and he doesn’t care to examine why too closely. He hurries to move on and change the direction of the conversation.

‘So when we made it onto the tour and you were always…’ the word _cruel_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he catches himself at the last second.

‘That was part of it, I think,’ Sascha nods. ‘I also just hated them comparing us. We are _very_ different.’

‘Ah.’

‘I don’t mean it in a bad way…’

‘You do mean it like that though. It’s okay. We _are_ very different. But I think now I realise, that it’s not in the ways that matter.’

He makes sure his eyes find Sascha’s as he says this, because he means it. He can picture the two of them making this work, and for the first time he can almost believe it will happen. It’s like after their exchanges of stubbornly one-sided service games, he finally feels like there is a chance at a break here. Sure, they are both stubborn and seem to frustrate each other to no end, but it’s not like either of them have ever backed down from a fight. They just have to _want_ it.

‘Well, I’m sorry anyway.’

‘It does. Matter. Your apology, I mean,’ Stefanos says eventually, once he feels everything that’s just been said had settled between them somewhat. ‘I was carrying that with me. So thank you.’

‘To be fair, you said some things over the years too, so I don’t think I’m completely to blame here,’ Sascha says, in his usual unapologetic manner, but Stefanos is learning to recognise that when he gets like that, there is usually something playful in his voice too. You only have to look for it.

‘I always think reflection is rewarding, but you do need to look to the future if you want to move forward,’ he offers, but Sascha just barks out a laugh at that.

‘You mean to say, you’re sorry too?’

‘Of course,’ Stefanos nods solemnly; he thought that much was obvious.

Sascha shoots him an amused look that he’s not sure what to make of. He watches him run his fingers through his fringe nervously, like he’s about to say something else.

‘You seemed-‘

He’s interrupted by the door opening and the loud laughter of Federer and Nadal as they enter the room.

Sascha flinches away from him a little, and it’s only the sudden movement that makes Stefanos realise how close they were to each other in the first place, both of them leaning in, their hands mere inches away from each other across the table.

6.

**John Isner d. Alexander Zverev 7-6(2) 4-6 1-10**

The aftermath of Sascha losing is not pretty. Even after Roger’s win over Kyrgios, there is a sort of quiet heartbreak on his face that makes Stefanos feel so utterly helpless, he could cry. He would love to just reach out and wipe the expression off his face with a soft caress of his fingertips, wants nothing more than to try and make him forget all about it with a kiss. (He curses himself for even thinking it, and he feels uneasy with the intensity of all his emotions when it comes to Sascha.)

Sascha still looks a little too serious - almost jumpy - when later on they are all joking around in the players’ lounge, and when Roger says something that has everyone laughing hysterically, Stefanos sees him slip away quietly.

The smile fades from his lips immediately and he stares after Sascha for a few seconds too long.

‘Is he okay?’

The realisation that Dominic is asking _him_ about how Sascha is, and the ease with which he just assumes that Stefanos would know, is earthshattering.

‘I- I don’t know, I have to admit,’ he says hesitantly, and suddenly he wishes he could give a better answer, could smooth out the worry-lines on Dominic’s face. He thinks, he’s never wished this hard for anything in his life ever before, but then he remembers that Grand Slam tournaments exist and he’s been desperately wishing he could win one pretty much ever since he was born. He shakes himself of the thought.

‘I think maybe I should…?’ he motions at the door where Sascha has disappeared.

Dominic nods at him with such hopeful conviction that Stefanos almost wants to scream at him. He has certainly not become an expert on Sascha over the last 24 hours. But he goes after him, with his heart hammering in his chest.

He finds Sascha easily enough, and he waves away the hopeful thought that maybe that’s because he _wanted_ to be found.

He’s on the phone when Stefanos walks into the locker room, and it makes him hesitate for a second, but Sascha readily meets his eyes and while he looks exhausted, there’s no animosity in his gaze. Stefanos lets the door shut behind him.

‘I know. I just hate it so fucking much,’ Sascha says into the phone, in Russian. Stefanos acknowledges – not for the first time – that he loves the way his voice sounds when he speaks the language. ‘Anyway, Tsitsipas is here. Yeah. Thanks Misch, talk to you later.’

Stefanos frowns. He hates the way Sascha says his surname, unfamiliar and clinical, and he wishes he could be Stefanos, wishes he could be _Stef_.

He’s been wishing for a lot of things lately.

‘Hi,’ Sascha says once he lowers the phone from his ear, and Stefanos continues to hover near the door.

‘You played well-‘ he starts, but gets interrupted right away.

‘ _Don’t_.’

‘I’m sorry, I-‘ he takes a step back, thinking he has made a mistake coming after him, but Sascha shakes his head.

‘You don’t have to leave, just… Can we just please talk about something that isn’t tennis? Just for a little bit.’

Sascha suddenly looks so young. It makes Stefanos think of seeing him for the first time, of how long ago that seems, of how far they have come. Of how underneath it all, this is still the same blonde, blue-eyed boy, after all.

‘Yes. Of course.’

He walks over to where Sascha’s sitting on the floor, in the corner, settles down next to him, sets his back against the cold wall too.

A moment passes and neither of them seem to know what to say.

Then out of nowhere, suddenly Sascha comes out with, ‘You didn’t know I was in love with you.’ It’s more a statement than a question of any kind. ‘You seemed surprised, I mean.’

Hearing the words still takes Stefanos’s breath away. He shakes his head silently, finding himself unable to speak.

‘I was though,’ Sascha continues without looking at him. He is picking at his nails. ‘As much as a 13-year-old can be, I guess,’ he adds with a little shrug.

Stefanos knows just exactly how intensely in love someone that young can be, but he doesn’t think this is the right time for an argument.

‘You never said.’ His voice sounds strange and echo-y in the empty locker room.

‘It was kind of hard to confess when you kept texting me insults in Greek that I needed to translate. Plus, I didn’t know, you didn’t know.’

‘Is this what you want to talk about?’ Stefanos asks, which for some reason makes Sascha laugh.

‘No, not really. I hate talking about all this. I do have the song if you want to listen though.’

Stefanos’s stomach tightens in excitement as he nods, and Sascha moves closer to him, the space between them almost negligible now.

‘You know, it was stuck in my head for days, but I didn’t actually listen to it,’ he says, watching Sascha pull up YouTube, and go into his own history. He barely catches a glimpse of it, but he’s dying to ask whether he’s ever seen any of his videos. He doesn’t. ‘It felt like… _cheating_ to listen without you.’

That makes Sascha look up, and for a moment it looks like he’s about to say something, but in the end he just places the phone between them, takes a deep breath, then presses play.

The speaker quality is a bit better, but otherwise it all feels the same; the intensity of the beat reverberating between them is exactly like that first time. Stefanos can smell the chlorine, can feel the heat of Florida pressing in through the doors.

He can’t help but stare at the phone just like he did back then, all those years ago, and he can feel his face heating up under Sascha’s unwavering gaze.

This time around he’s brave enough to look up.

He’s greeted with a pair of startlingly blue eyes, and he can spot a few freckles if he leans in close enough. He does before he could stop himself and he’s so close now that their noses bump into each other.

Sascha is the one who finally makes up the rest of the space between them, his soft lips seeking out Stefanos’s eagerly.

They kiss soft and slow, like they never got to the first time around, and Sascha seems almost determinedly stubborn to take his time now.

He explores Stefanos’s mouth with easy confidence, which helps him relax too. He can hardly believe this is actually happening, and the butterflies in his stomach are as fervent as Sascha’s grip on the back of his neck, pulling him in closer and closer…

When Sascha stops kissing him to finally catch his breath, he hides his face in Stefanos’s neck, and his teeth bump against Stefanos’s collarbone. Stefanos doesn’t dare move, still unsure he’s not dreaming.

But then Sascha presses his lips against his skin and when he whispers the lyrics, Stefanos believes him, like he’s never believed in anything in his life.

‘… _and tonight it’s just me and you_.’

7.

**_Feeling rejected hurts. It undermines your confidence and makes you doubt your worth, and whether you've experienced it a lot, or it has only happened once or twice in your life, it can easily lead to deep anxiety about future rejection._ **

_Stefanos Tsitsipas. “FEAR OF REJECTION.” YouTube. 11 December 2019._

It’s not like Stefanos is not expecting having to say goodbye, and yet hugging Sascha the next morning, knowing he won’t see him for a long while, makes him want to cry. They disappear down into the basement while Stefanos’s parents are not paying attention, and sit under their ping-pong table. The silence between them is deafening. They are holding hands; sweaty, calloused palms flush against each other.

Stefanos can feel his heart beating faster and faster, until he thinks he can’t take it anymore. He counts down from three in his head and on four: he leans in.

His eyes are closed, so he can’t see the panic on Sascha’s face, but he can feel it radiating off his body in waves. He squeezes his hand once, in nervous reassurance.

He can feel Sascha shiver under his hands and thinks it’s a good sign. They are close enough now that he can feel Sascha’s ragged breaths hitting his face. Then just before their lips could finally touch, Sascha pulls away. He wrenches his hand out of Stefanos’s hold violently, scrambles out from under the table frantically.

‘What the fuck, Tsitsipas?’ he shouts in Russian and Stefanos feels so dumbfounded, it takes him a few seconds until the words start making sense to him.

He clambers up and stands up on shaky legs, looks at Sascha’s handsome face distorted in panic and disgust. He wants to say something, but all the words get stuck in his throat.

‘What is _wrong_ with you?’ Sascha hurls at him viciously and Stefanos wishes he would do it in English - somehow he thinks that would make it more bearable.

‘Sascha, what-?’

‘Don’t call me that,’ Sascha recoils from him, as if his words were a physical attack. His face looks void of emotion, but his hands are shaking a little. Stefanos doesn’t know what to do.

It’s like time has stopped, they stand there, frozen in apprehensive silence, staring at each other until Stefanos’s mother calls down the stairs, looking for him.

Stefanos is barely aware of his body moving as he turns on his heels and leaves Sascha without looking back. As they drive off, leaving the tennis club behind, he can feel the desperate tears rising in his throat.

He looks out the window and fixes his gaze resolutely on the bright Florida sky passing by, hoping his parents won’t see him cry. He swears to never go back there.

He does go back there of course, and five years later, when his mother is trying to coax him out of the toilet cubicle he’s locked himself into, she doesn’t think to ask him what he’s crying about, she just assumes it’s because of his second consecutive loss in the Juniors Final. He doesn’t bother telling her that it’s because he’s feeling worthless and can’t get rid of the voice in his head, telling him that something’s _wrong_ with him.

8.

**@StefTsitsipas: “Destiny will connect you with people.”**

Waking up next to Sascha - or rather, half-buried under him - with his fingertips tightly digging into Stefanos’s hip, feels right in a way that not very many things do.

Blinking up into astonishingly blue eyes, sleep-tousled blonde hair tickling his neck, the metal of his chains cold against his skin, it’s just all so… _right_. It’s right like the colour of clay, like making his sister smile, like the satisfying sound of hitting a powerful forehand down the line, like seeing his name in the top ten for the very first time. Just the way it’s supposed to be.

Sascha’s leg is a solid weight thrown across Stefanos’s thigh, and he places a careful hand down onto it. He wasn’t expecting Sascha to be a cuddler, but the more he thinks about it, the more his possessive grabbiness makes sense.

Sascha drags Stefanos closer just then, buries his face into his neck, then promptly starts sputtering.

‘Ugh, your horrible hair is everywhere’, he says, sounding disgusted, but instead of pulling away, he actually tightens his grip on Stefanos’s waist.

Stefanos - who was very much present the previous night when Sascha was barely willing to untangle his fingers from Stefanos’s hair to get himself undressed - knows better than to take it personally.

‘I think you’re taller,’ he tells him instead.

‘Yes, I’m a growing boy, Stefanos,’ Sascha mocks him, a little muffled, from where he’s buried his face into Stefanos’s sleep-messy hair.

‘You definitely weren’t this tall. Last time, I mean.’

Sascha goes rigid for a split second, then sighs into his hair. It tickles a little.

‘Well, that’s one way to bring Toronto up.’

‘I- That wasn’t intentional.’

‘But you wanna talk about it.’

‘Um, do you not think we should?’

‘We are not the first people to have sex in a locker room. Probably not even the first people to have sex in that specific locker room.’

‘We are not people,’ Stefanos protests. ‘We are _us_.’

‘I guess,’ Sascha agrees, but then he pokes Stefanos defiantly in the ribs. ‘I’m not apologising for it. Not everything is always my fault.’

‘I’m not asking you to.’

‘Okay.’

For a moment he revels in the feeling of Sascha’s fingers moving down his spine, caressing, brushing over every bone.

‘Sascha?' Stefanos's voice is quiet; he's still getting used to saying his name.

Sascha hums his acknowledgement into his skin, lips briefly pressing against where Stefanos's neck meets his shoulder.

'What will happen now?'

Sascha's fingers still for a second. He mumbles something about it being way too early in the morning, but eventually he resurfaces from behind Stefanos’s hair and readjusts their positions so he can look directly into his eyes.

'We can figure it out when we- You're coming to Beijing, right?'

While this is not exactly an answer to his question, the promise of seeking each other out again on tour is enough for now. Stefanos feels himself go pliant under Sascha’s hands. He lets out a little huff of air, strokes a hand down Sascha's side.

'Zhuhai first,' he says, and he knows he sounds relieved.

'Hey,’ Sascha touches his face. ‘I wasn't gonna ditch you. Do you think I go around sleeping with people then ignoring them?'

‘Well-‘

‘Jesus, Stefanos, shut up about Toronto already.’

That makes them both giggle. When they stop, Sascha’s eyes shine with warmth, and Stefanos feels comfortable enough to say:

‘I don't know. I- I just hoped you wouldn't think this was a mistake.'

Sascha considers him for a moment, squinting at him with sleep-bleary eyes. ‘Do you think Toronto was a mistake?’

‘I think, maybe a lapse in judgement perhaps.’

‘By who? Me or you?’ Sascha asks with a cheeky smile. He doesn’t let Stefanos answer, instead tangles a hand into his hair and pulls him in for a kiss.

‘I’ve never regretted anything about you. Not really.’ Sascha tells him in whisper-quiet Russian when they come up for air.

This time it’s Stefanos that kisses him, and he gives it his all, is not afraid to bruise. He forgot how good Sascha felt like this, frantic under his hands. He relishes in his new-found confidence, of being sure that the other man wants this, wants _him_. Their kisses turn messy and urgent and he scratches at Sascha’s back a little too hard, but Sascha doesn’t complain.

Stefanos is sure that this morning will turn into a repeat of last night, but then Sascha’s alarm goes off, and they both fall back into the pillows, helplessly staring at the ceiling. Stefanos reaches out a hand to tuck a stray strand of blonde hair behind Sascha’s ear, and Sascha leans into his touch, chases it once he lifts his hand away, almost like a little kitten.

‘ _Kotik_ ,’ he whispers at him, almost involuntarily.

‘Shut up,’ Sascha says, and Stefanos cannot get enough of his laugh. It makes him feel warm in a way only the sun can, back home.

'Ouch!’

Sascha lunges out without any warning, sinking his teeth into Stefanos's neck. Stefanos makes a high-pitched flailing sound, bites down on a Greek curse.

‘What- what are you-? That will leave a mark!'

'Good,' Sascha mumbles into his skin, satisfied. He licks over the hickey he left, once, twice, then says, 'There's enough people fawning over you all the time, now at least they will know you belong to someone already.'

Stefanos stares for a moment, completely dumbfounded, then lets the other man rearrange their bodies the way he wants, as if he were clay and Sascha a sculptor. Eventually he settles down with one hand buried in Stefanos’s hair, the other resting on his bum.

He kisses Stefanos’s nose, before finally clambering out of bed, and says, ‘Call me “ _kitten_ ” one more time, Stefanos, I will hit you, I swear to god.’

9.

**_Geneva: Team World lead 11-10 ahead of German Alexander Zverev's clash with Milos Raonic_ **

Sunday afternoon. The two of them in the Team Europe locker room – Stefanos just after his warm down from practicing, Sascha looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

Stefanos doesn’t realise it’s just them, until Sascha makes a snide comment about Stefanos leaving his stuff in front of his locker and it’s not immediately followed by the others’ laughter.

‘You’re diverting attention,’ Stefanos observes after looking him up and down. His jaw looks so tense, Stefanos is genuinely concerned for his teeth.

‘I have no idea what that means, but that’s pretty normal half the time you talk.’

Stefanos doesn’t rise to the bait. ‘Overcompensating. You’re trying to distract yourself because you’re nervous.’

‘Thanks? But you should consider that maybe I’m being mean to you because I enjoy it. Maybe it has nothing to do with tennis.’

Stefanos reaches out a tentative hand to touch him, to still his body for a second. He catches his shoulder, and considers it a victory that Sascha doesn’t brush him off. ‘You should sit down and relax. Stop thinking.’

‘Are you trying to talk me into meditating?’ Sascha blinks at him suspiciously.

‘You can just sit down and- Listen to music. You do that before you play, right? Listen to something soothing,’ he instructs, as he sits down onto the bench, patting the empty space next to him. ‘Lie down. Close your eyes.’

Sascha gives him a murderous look, but complies. He makes it out he’s putting his head over Stefanos’s lap to be annoying, but when Stefanos carefully reaches out to untangle one of his chains from his t-shirt and forgets his hand there over his chest, he relaxes into the touch immediately.

Stefanos watches as he takes his time finding the right playlist, settles down, finally closes his eyes.

After a moment of hesitation, Stefanos drops his other hand into his hair. Sascha hums appreciatively when he starts carding through his curls.

Stefanos is not sure how long they stay like that. The locker room is a little cold and he left his blue jacket courtside, but he doesn’t actually mind. It’s astonishing he’s never noticed how long Sascha’s eyelashes are.

He can hear the footsteps, hopes they will go past the door, but doesn’t make any move to pull away when they don’t. His heart hammers against his chest when the door opens, his fingers move nervously against Sascha’s t-shirt, but he doesn’t take his hand away.

It’s Rafa. There is a look of mild surprise on his face first, whatever he was going to say gets stuck in his throat. Stefanos can feel his face heat up as they make eye-contact.

Rafa stares at him for a beat, then nods solemnly, almost approvingly, then he turns away, shuts the door behind himself.

‘He with Stefanos. Is good. We leave him now,’ he says to someone on the other side of the door, before walking away.

10.

**_Alexander Zverev clinches thrilling victory over Milos Raonic as Europe retain title against Team World: 6-4, 3-6, 10-4_ **

Stefanos didn’t know winning could feel like this.

11.

 **_Keep downing drinks like there’s  
_ ** **_No tomorrow, there’s just right now_ **

He loses him for a while sometime after his second vodka and coke. The bitter taste stays on his tongue and he wishes he could find Sascha and get him to kiss it away.

He's comfortably numb now, his blood loud in his ears, a little too warm, but so incredibly happy. It feels like time has stopped, and it's never going to move again, that they'll be in this moment forever. He finally spots a glimmer of gold that can only be Sascha, handsome and tall, his eyes outrageously blue, plains of smooth tanned skin, glowing and soft around the edges, and he's beautiful, he's sunshine, he's Stef's, he is his _solnyska_ , his _sun_.

Fuck, Stefanos is drunk.

He makes himself stop his aimless dancing around, focuses in on Sascha, who - on closer inspection - is talking to Roger. They're hunched over something in a conspiratorial manner - a phone maybe. Sascha smiles a sunshine smile (there's a pang of jealousy low in Stefanos's stomach because it's not directed at him, and even as drunk as he is, he knows it’s unreasonable), then he straightens up, looks around, as if searching for someone.

Stefanos hopes to everything that's holy that he's looking for him.

He's humming _DJ Got Us Fallin’ In Love_ again, as their eyes meet over everyone's heads. Advantages of both of them being tall. Stefanos lets out a giggle that he can barely hear over the song playing in his head.

Then suddenly Sascha's right there, so close, all he has to do is reach out, so he does. He grabs a hold of his arm clumsily, rests his other hand on his shoulder to balance himself. Sascha's laugh is like something he dreamt up.

The music in his head gets even louder. It takes the scene of Fabio laughing at Domi’s and Massu’s flailing around, trying to match the rhythm, to finally make him realise: the music is not in his head.

He glares at Sascha accusingly.

'You did this!'

'Yeah. Perks of knowing the DJ,' Sascha smiles cockily and his hands find their way onto Stefanos's hips, drag the two of them closer to each other.

It's not exactly easy to slow-dance to _DJ Got Us Fallin’ In Love_ , but they are drunk enough to give it a decent try. Stefanos is vaguely aware the rest of the room is going crazy around them; Roger enthusiastically shout-ordering another round of drinks at the bar, Domi still trying his hardest not to fall over his own two feet while dancing like a maniac, Fabio loudly catcalling Sascha and him. None of it matters. It's just the two of them, Sascha's sea-blue eyes, his long eyelashes, his large, warm hands holding onto Stefanos. They are mouthing the words to each other, and Stefanos thinks, maybe he wants to die right here, right now, in this very moment.

He buries his face into Sascha's shoulder in embarrassment when Roger shouts something that is either in German, or Stefanos is too drunk to understand, but is definitely directed at them. The warm cotton of Sascha's shirt against his face is the best feeling.

'Take me home,' he whispers against Sascha's skin, presses an almost-kiss against his neck, as the song fades out. Sascha takes Stefanos by the hand, makes sure he has his phone, his hotel room key before they leave, gets in a mocking comment about how drunk he is somewhere in-between, and Stefanos thinks: _I love you_.

He doesn't dare say it out loud, no matter how right it sounds in his head.

It's only in the taxi, when Sascha's staring out the window, but reaches out to lace their fingers together over his thigh, that it occurs to Stefanos that he thought 'I love you' not in Greek, or even English, but in Russian.

And he wishes he weren't drunk for this, because it feels like a revelation one needs to be sober for. He promises himself to examine this more closely later, when the world doesn't feel as fleeting, as dizzy. Because just like the way he always thinks in Greek when he's on court, just like it'd feel strange to vlog in any language other than English, love only seems to make sense to him in Russian.

He knows it's all because of Sascha, and he can't find it in himself to be annoyed.

Back in the hotel room, he just about registers Sascha calling him _Styopa_ , as he hugs him closer, before he finally falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> next chapter coming at some point maybe ? something is definitely in the works 🌷
> 
> buy me a [coffee](https://www.buymeacoffee.com/nowhereblake) if you feel like ☕


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